Fool's Gold
by labyrinths
Summary: "They said you might have been king and are a fool to have refused a crown," she said, making him frown. AU: Cersei marries Ned Stark.
1. Chapter 1

**Fool's Gold**

* * *

_AU: I'm not sure where I'm headed with this. Probably a series of short interwoven scenes spanning several years. Cersei marries Eddard stark. War happens, anyway. That's the basic idea._

* * *

"They said you might have been king and are a fool to have refused a crown," she said, making him frown.

He'd looked at her all evening with that dismissive glance, as if she were a displeasing dish someone had brought to the table and set at his side. Well, she'd had enough of Eddard Stark and his barbed politeness. He'd better learn that this lion had claws.

"They said you might have been queen," replied Eddard Stark.

Cersei glanced in Robert Baratheon's direction. The man was half-drunk already and did not seem interested in slowing down. Next to him, rigid as a board, sat that skinny little ninny of Catelyn Tully, his queen.

_She can have him_, she thought. Cersei would never have believed it before, but after the war and her brother's death all she wanted was silence. A silence which she was being denied, forced to attend this idiotic wedding.

_How quickly they forget the prices that were paid_, she thought and sipped her wine.

"When I was a child, a crone once said I'd be queen one day and all my happiness…" Cersei said.

_Queen you shall be... Five children you shall have. All in shrouds. _

"I'm glad it won't come to pass," she muttered.

Eddard Stark looked at her curiously and she realized she had spoken out loud. Perhaps Robert had not been the only one who'd had a little too much wine. Cersei frowned and clasped her cup.

"Your father shall make another match for you," Eddard said, his voice kind.

"As soon as he can he shall have me shed my mourning clothes and parade me around court."

Cersei had refused to wear anything other than her simple mourning dress which would clash with all the colors on display at the wedding feast. But even when her father bared his teeth and whispered sharp words to her, she refused to change. It would not last, though. She'd made a futile stand.

"They say they might marry me to Jon Arryn ," Cersei muttered, downing her cup. "He's old enough to be my father."

Yes, she was drunk. No matter. She wanted to be drunk. The joy of the other people around her irritated her. The only person she could half-stand in this state was Eddard Stark. At least he kept his mouth mercifully shut unlike some of the other noblemen who talked and talked and said nothing of importance. If only he wouldn't stare at Cersei with those dour eyes of his, as if he were unmercifully dissecting her. Other men might stare in awe or lust at Cersei Lannister, but Eddard Stark just _stared_.

"He is a good man," Eddard said, gently.

_He pities me_, she thought, narrowing her eyes and measuring his expression. It made her want to splash her wine in his face because nobody pitied _her_. When she looked down she remembered that her cup was empty. Cersei blinked twice and rose from her seat. She caught a glimpse of her father across the room, starring at her.

They had brought a pie into the room. The bride and groom were about to cut into it, large knife in hand. A hundred birds would fly out of it for the merriment of the drunken revelers. She did not want to see it. She pictured the birds pecking at Jamie's eyes and she felt like retching.

Cersei walked out of the room as quickly as she could, rushing down a dark hallway and then down the stairs. She did not know where she was headed. Only that she wished to be away from all the brightness and the music.

Cersei had almost reached the bottom of the stairs when she slipped and fell. She sat on the floor and thought she might weep.

She felt a hand on her arm, aiding her up.

"Are you hurt?" Eddard asked.

He'd followed her. Of course he had. It was the honourable thing to do. One must aid the maiden in peril.

She didn't want to be saved.

"I am fine," Cersei said straightening up.

She glanced at him, irritated but oddly grateful for his presence. With him there, she would not cry. It was good not to cry. Her eyes were raw from the tears.

"I shall escort you to your rooms," he said.

"I shall need no escort," she hissed.

Cersei walked back by herself, unwilling to lean on the arm of any man. However, she did notice he followed her, walking only a few paces behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Robert had been drinking again and his words were slurred.

"If you marry Lysa, we'd be brothers. As we were meant to be. As it should have been."

Ned recalled Lysa Tully. A pretty face, a weak mouth and a wavering little voice. She was eager to please, Lysa. Too eager, perhaps. There was something about the girl: her edges were frayed. She was nervous, jumpy.

_Cersei Lannister would never be jumpy_, he thought. She was a sphinx, regarding the world with an arched eyebrow.

"Is it true Jon Arryn intends to wed Cersei Lannister?" Ned asked, unable to stop himself. The question simply popped unbidden from his mouth.

Robert frowned, setting his glass down. They were sitting in the king's study and it was late, the candles waning by the minute. Shadows danced across the king's face.

"You won't say you are interested in that girl? She is beautiful, yes, but cold as ice. By the gods Ned, she'd freeze your prick off. Although maybe that doesn't matter to you northerners."

Robert chuckled, amused by his own wit. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and began filling his cup again.

"Yes, she's rich and beautiful, but do you think a woman like that makes a good wife?"

Ned supposed not. The king had a good wife. Catelyn smiled kindly at everyone and already seemed adept at ignoring her husband's gaffes. Robert did not care for her, not truly, but she would birth him sons and rear them properly. Could he say the same of Cersei Lannister? There was strength in that girl but he could also easily see it might go to waste. In the wrong environment, with the wrong husband, she might grow spoiled and…

"…fuck her," Robert muttered.

"Pardon me?"

"You should just fuck her and tell me if she's as blond down there as…hahaha."

Robert exploded into laughter. Ned watched his strong, handsome friend, the king, and did not feel amused. The wedding had given way to seven days of feasts in honor of the happy couple and Robert had taken advantage of each and every day to drink and eat his fill. He had also groped a couple of servings girls for good measure.

_He is not very kingly when he acts like this_, Ned thought and glanced down.

"Say I would marry her, what would you tell me then?"

Robert grew quiet. He placed his cup on the table and looked at Ned with careful, narrowed eyes.

"I'd ask why."

"She intrigues me."

"Oh, Ned. You and women. Never the _easy_ women, is it? Always the difficult ones. The impossible beauties. Another…"

Robert trailed off but Ned knew what he meant. Another Ashara. It was nothing like that. He'd loved Ashara at first sight. Cersei? Cersei he merely wanted to…save? From the world? From herself? How? Why? Because he hadn't saved Ashara?

"She would hate Winterfell," Robert said.

_Maybe_, Ned thought. He couldn't easily picture Cersei in the cold hallways of his childhood home. The rare orchid does not bloom in the snow. And yet…would she be any happier with Jon Arryn? What other men might Tywin Lannister have lined up for her?

"It might suit her well."

"By the gods, you are serious. You intend to ask Tywin Lannister for his daughter's hand in marriage."

"I would not presume such a thing," Ned said. "He would likely say no to me."

"If you want her then you shall have her," Robert said with a smirk. "Just don't come to me when she scratches your eyes out. So then? Do you want the girl?"

Ned looked at his hands, carefully mulling the question. He might do best to pick a soft, malleable creature like Lysa Tully. It would be a simple life, a pleasant existence. Cersei seemed quick tempered, proud and harsh. Did he truly wish for a wife like that?

And yet…she did not lack for wits, nor beauty, nor a certain elegant courage.

Robert was wrong. The girl wasn't ice. She was wildfire.

Only a madman might choose to hold wildfire in his hands.

"If it pleases you, my lord, I would like to wed her."

Robert smiled and shook his head. "Then you shall have her."

In such easy fashion, over some drinks, during a late night chat, did Ned Stark assure himself a wife.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He found her in the godswood, of all places, staring at the heart-tree.

"My lady, your father and I have been looking for you all morning," he said, no reproach in his voice, mainly a statement of fact.

"I've come to see the place where it will happen," Cersei said, as though she were speaking of an execution and viewing the scaffold.

"I know it is not your custom to marry in the godswood, but here in the North it is different," Ned said.

"Here in the North, yes," Cersei muttered. "I've heard as much for the past few days."

Cersei Lannister's devilish green eyes were no doubt her most attractive feature, flashing bright and angrily at the world. They resembled emeralds, most of the time, though in the cool shade of the trees they seemed to turn the richer green of leafs. It would be quite easy, looking at the young woman, to believe she was a dryad who had just melted forth from the grove.

Cersei turned around and walked away from the heart-tree.

"I am not even allowed to wear the wedding dress I wanted. I told my father I'd wed in crimson and gold, with plenty of jewels around my neck, but no."

"We are not as ostentatious in—"

"In the North," she said, interrupting him. "I suppose not. You are a simple man of simple tastes, no? Which begs the question why would you ever marry me considering you don't want my father's gold."

"What makes you think I don't want it?"

She leaned against a tree, a mischievous smirk upon her lips. "If you wanted money and great honors, you would have asked Robert to make you his Hand. Instead you are letting Jon Arryn take that seat. An ambitious man would not allow that."

Cersei looked up at the tree, carefully surveying its branches. Swiftly she began climbing it.

"My lady, you may fall," he said.

"I have climbed many trees. I always beat Jamie at it. I swear I will not fall and break my neck before our precious wedding," she said disdainfully.

Ned did not say anything else, merely watching her as she found a suitable perch and sat down, observing the godswood before finally deigning to look down at him.

"A foolish man might want me to mother his bastard, but I do not think you are a fool."

"I would not ask that of you."

"That leaves beauty. Though I'm quite certain you do not hunger for me."

"But you are beautiful, my lady," he said, though his words were cool and held no passion.

Cersei chuckled. She seemed mightily amused, sitting in the tree branches and looking down at him as though he were nothing but a tiny insect.

"Men have looked at me since I was scarcely a woman. I've felt their gaze burning me. I know when men want me. You don't. I do not understand why you'd pick me for a wife."

Ned hardly understood himself. It was not a great passion that drove him forward with this marriage, nor was it profit. A prudent fellow might have taken Lysa Tully for a wife. He supposed this might be his one act of rebellion. He'd done his duty all his life. He had given up Ashara when asked for it. He had followed Robert to battle when he called him forth. He had obeyed his sister when she entrusted him with her secret. Ned had done everything he was supposed to do.

This might be his one act of treason.

"Would you rather marry someone else?" he asked.

"Who? Jon Arryn?" Cersei asked, kicking her legs back and forth and laughing.

"He is a good man, and powerful. Somehow I think you'd fancy power."

Cersei stopped kicking her legs and frowned. "Why yes, I do fancy power. But Jon Arryn would never let me have it."

Cersei climbed down from the tree and wiped her hands against her dress.

"Men never want to give women any power. They take, but they do not give. Women must open their legs for men and bear them children. They must stitch their husband's shirts and watch them go to battle with an embroidered handkerchief to remind them of their wives. They must look away when their husband's plow into a whore's cunt."

She tilted her head, a challenging stare cutting him like a knife.

"Men like Jon Arryn own women. There is no power to be had."

He said nothing for there was nothing to say. He returned her stare, cold and composed, unflinching at the harshness of her words.

Cersei raised a hand and he thought she might slap him; he would not have found it odd. Instead, she pulled him down into a kiss. It was not a kind kiss, her lips harsh and demanding. He had not kissed her, not even held her hand between his, and he thought that she meant this as a challenge. That she wanted to kiss him only so _he_ wouldn't kiss her first. To claim victory in this way.

Of course he did not kiss her back. Not at first. But then she clutched the collar of his shirt, as if perching herself so she would not lose her balance, and the gesture ignited something inside him, so that he finally did kiss her back, did wrap an arm around her waist and kissed her breathless.

When they parted a noticeable blush warmed Cersei's cheeks though she seemed more amused than embarrassed.

She spoke before he did.

"I'll marry you. But you can't _ever_ own me," she said, promptly swishing her skirts and walking away from him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Cersei married Eddard Stark in the godswood, with no jewels upon her breast or head. Instead, she wove flowers into her hair, so many flowers that it seemed she was wearing a crown of petals. No one could accuse her of flashing her jewels, but perhaps they might find her ostentatious anyway.

It was a short ceremony followed by multiple toasts in the great hall of Winterfell. She sat very straight during the whole feast, holding her head up high as the Northern lords and ladies stared at her with awe or displeasure.

Cersei knew what she looked like: the picture of young beauty. Golden tresses and pale, unmarred skin. An exquisite face and a lovely, slim body. Queenly. She looked queenly.

Still, they did not like her, of that she was sure. Not that she _cared_.

She danced with her father and he warned her that she must please Ned Stark, for pleasing Ned meant pleasing the King. She danced with a couple of her cousins who'd come North as part of her escort, and they asked her stupid questions she did not answer (Are you afraid of the bedding? Are his kisses cold?). She danced with Ned's lords, who made japes they thought were funny or praised her beauty with off-putting enthusiasm. She danced a single dance with her new husband and he was quiet.

By the time of the bedding, Cersei was tired and irritated. The men began divesting her of her clothes and she ordered them to make quick work of it. She knew she was supposed to giggle and play along but she had no time for clumsy oafs who wanted to pinch her breasts. Finally, naked, she lay upon the bed.

Eddard arrived soon after and Cersei rolled her eyes at the sounds of silly women, all aflush, all happy to unbutton a lord's shirt or take off his boots. As though this was some great treat. Then the band of women left, closing the door, and they were alone.

Eddard sat next to Cersei and looked at her curiously, but with no desire. Not that she _wanted_ him to want her, but his infinite indifference made Cersei raise an eyebrow.

"Are you going to kiss me?" she asked.

When he did not speak she sat up and kissed him instead, biting his lower lip for good measure. His eyes were open and when she pulled back they stared at her, unblinking.

"You are no maid," he said quietly.

Her kisses had betrayed her. She ought to have played the part of the simpering, idiotic girl. But she found she could not – had not even paused to consider if she could. It was too late now. He might fling her out of his chambers right this instant. What a sight would that be! What would her father say? It pleased her to imagine him thwarted. It might make the humiliation bearable.

"No," she said, but tiled her head up to stare back into his eyes.

She did not fear him.

"I've loved a girl," he said soberly.

It almost made her want to laugh. Of course he did. How else would he have fathered that bastard of his, which was mewling somewhere around this cold fortress? Yet the admission, although idiotic in its intonation, held a certain warmth.

"Did you care very much for your young man?"

Cersei thought of Jaime as he'd been when alive and Jaime as the corpse that had been delivered to her father. Because Tywin had been too slow – or too cunning – to act. To raise his banners against the Mad King. Her father had kept his head, had kept his money and ensured a place of power no matter what man rose or fell. At what price? A dead son and the taste of ashes in Cersei's mouth.

"He was a boy," she muttered. "I cared the world for him. He's dead, no need to concern yourself with that."

"She's also dead."

"I think the whole wide world died during the war. Not that it matters. There will be more wars. There always are."

He pressed a hand against her cheek and she was surprised to discover he was brushing a single, stray tear from her face. She pressed her lips together, tightly.

Cersei didn't like the way he coaxed words out of her. It was his silences which prompted her forward. She was not accustomed to silence and so threatened to spill herself open for him in every quiet space between words.

She did not like this at all.

Eddard kissed her, a soft kiss which barely registered as a kiss. She wanted to laugh against his mouth. He was so unsure. Every gesture was too tentative and timid.

Their union did not satisfy her but she did not mind his arm around her waist afterwards, as he slept, nor the feel of his body at her side.

She did not love him. Not at all. But he was kind. She'd seldom had any kindness. Her father was a harsh, unyielding man. Jaime had loved her with an all-consuming passion that gave no way to kindness. Tyrion was of little importance to her and even if he had been, even if she had cared for her little brother, he was too much like their father to allow himself much kindness.

Kindness might not be so terrible, she thought, closing her eyes and surrendering to sleep. And power. That would come in time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Cersei wanted power. She wanted admiration and jewels. She wanted freedom. Deep down, in a quiet corner of herself, she also wanted love. Which was why Winterfell was so utterly infuriating.

Cersei attempted to behave like a good Lady of Winterfell. Not that it should be that _hard_ in that lump of ice, but she was surrounded by uncouth peasants and idiots who pretended to be noblemen. But Cersei did _try_. She decked herself in finery and made sure to look her very best. Queenly. Elegant. Yet no one seemed to appreciate her sophisticated fashions.

She sat at her husband's side and provided merry conversation, attempting to charm the lords and ladies who dined with them, but they seemed more baffled than appreciative. Eddard's bannermen leered at her but she knew they do not respect her.

In bed, she failed too. Eddard slept at her side, but he was chaste. Cersei did not want him rutting between her thighs, but she also thought she was far too pretty to merit nothing but a kiss on the cheek at nights.

Cersei did her best to wrestle control of the day-to-day activities from Maester Luwin but all he said was "things are not done that way in Winterfell." It was the only thing anyone ever said to her. Luwin had given her several thick tomes containing Northern stories, histories and accounts of local customs but Cersei had dismissed them. As though she could learn anything from these barbarians! She _knew_ how to run a household. Not that she could. Not with everyone interfering.

Cersei quickly found herself relegated to a minimal role with none of her decisions having much weight. Indeed, most days it seemed hardly like there was a Lady of Winterfell. Many people even called her Lady Lannister, as if she was a guest who had come here only for a season.

Nothing Cersei did mattered.

Funnily enough it was her husband's bastard, Jon Snow, who spurred on her first action of consequence.

Cersei had been wandering through the hallways of Winterfell for half the morning – there was nothing much to _do_ in Winterfell but to wander around – when she bumped into a sniveling child sitting on the floor. She'd seen him before, once before the wedding. This was Jon Snow, her husband's bastard.

Under other circumstances she might have had the child thrown out the moment she became Lady of Winterfell, but if Ned Stark could overlook her evident lack of virginity, Cersei could stomach a single bastard.

Nevertheless, the boy, barely a toddler, inspired no maternal feelings in Cersei. She recalled how she'd felt about her younger brother when he'd been a baby: terribly annoyed. It was the same with Jon Snow.

She looked at him curiously for she had only seen him from afar and now she had a chance to pay closer attention to the child.

He had the Stark's dark hair and eyes. Nowhere could she detect any traces of Ashara Dayne.

"Poor thing. You take after your father," Cersei said dismissively.

Jon began to cry.

"Hush, little worm," Cersei muttered.

Obediently Jon quieted down and stared at her. Cersei looked around, wondering what happened to the child's nurse.

Cersei bent down to look at him, frowning. The child attempted to get a hold of her golden hair, fascinated by the sight. She immediately straightened up.

Where the devil was the boy's attendant?

"Come along, maggot," she told Jon and practically dragged him down the hallway, in search of his nurse.

#

"What do you mean? That girl is a shameless slut who prefers to fuck the stable boy rather than perform her chores. She left your bastard unattended. Not that I would mind if the tadpole breaks his neck, but I do care when servants skirt their obligations."

Eddard looked at her, impassive, apparently unmoved by her words. They'd been over this twice and he did not seem to get her point.

"You don't have someone administer half a dozen lashes to a girl for that."

"If this was my father's household, I'd have them administer two dozen," Cersei said, baring her teeth.

She began pacing before the fireplace, feeling like a caged lion. What did a servant, a mere nothing matter to him? She was the lady of the household and she should be in charge of administering punishments.

"The servants say you are unkind."

"A bunch of blabbermouths, they are," Cersei said.

She moved closer to the fire, appreciative of its warmth. The castle was always cold and she spent her evenings with her teeth chattering. They told her it was not winter by far, but she thought they were mad. Surely they'd all freeze and die if it got any colder.

"Do you know what they call you in the kitchens?" he asked.

"Like I care."

"The Bitch of Casterly Rock."

"That is not my fault. If you were any kind of suitable husband you'd make them stop."

"How?"

"You'd tell them to shut their mouths and sew them shut if they did not! My father would not have suffered such insolence!" she cried.

"The people love you not and you've only been here a short time, my lady. I worry."

He sounded genuinely concerned, which only made it worse.

Cersei whirled around, slamming her palms against his chest, shoving him back. Eddard stepped back a bit.

"If you were a real man, you'd _make_ them love me," she hissed.

He kept his usual cool composure. Nothing ever seemed to trouble Eddard Stark, nothing seemed to upset his balance. She felt like clawing his eyes out. She hated him for his measured civility.

"I shouldn't be here. I should be back home, back in Casterly Rock," she said. "Better yet, I should be married to Rhaegar. I ought to be queen. Only your whore of a sister ruined that! And now here you are, to ruin what's left of my life!"

He did flinch at that. His eyes grew wide, only to narrow into a pained stare. She felt a thrill going through her body when she saw the terrible sadness that invaded him. She had hurt him, at last.

Yet when he turned from her, turned and walked to the door of their chamber, Cersei raised a hand in a reflexive movement.

_Oh, please_, she thought, though she had no idea what she meant by that. But that sounded like begging, so she quickly put her hand down.

Eddard glanced at her over his shoulder before closing the door.

Cersei bit her lip and tasted blood.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The crypts of Winterfell were dark and cold, but they were home to him. This is where his kin was buried. This is where his sister rested. He stared at the stone likeness of Lyanna and wished she were here to counsel him.

Ned sighed. He had not been married long and already he thought he might have made a poor choice. Cersei's strength had caught his interest. Her spirited nature intrigued him. But perhaps those were poor qualities for a wife.

He thought of Lyanna and Brandon. There had been a wild streak in them, a fearlessness he admired. But Cersei seemed more reckless that fearless.

The rustle of a dress made him look up. Cersei carefully set her torch upon an iron sconce, watching him with her oh-so-green eyes.

"They said I'd find you down here," she said. "It's a morbid little hideaway."

"My lady," Ned said, bowing his head politely.

Cersei crossed her arms, frowning at him.

"You have not spoken to me for a week."

"I have very little to say."

She smirked, her face challenging him. _Well, say it_, her eyes told him.

"You are like a player who thinks she can win the game by overturning the board and scattering all the pieces upon the floor," he told her.

"Oh, what is that supposed to mean?" Cersei asked rolling her eyes.

"You come to Winterfell and expect everything to change for you. My bannermen look at you and they see a haughty girl in frivolous dresses—"

"What I wear should be of no consequence."

"That is not the point. You do not try to learn anything about the North. You simply want to impose you will—"

"Is that not what a ruler does? Impose his will?" she asks. "Do you not impose your will on your lords and peasants and merchants?"

"I also attempt to listen."

Cersei let out a little sigh. Her face was petulant. "What does it matter if I listen or not? They all hate me, anyway. You hate me."

Ned looked at her in earnest puzzlement. "How do I hate you?"

"You do not approve of me. I know it. I can feel it. Besides, you do not even find me pretty. We do not share a bed."

"I would not impose myself on you."

"Oh, if I was some other girl I wager you'd impose yourself, sure enough."

There was some truth to Cersei's words. Had he been sharing his bed with Lysa Tully he might have been more likely to make an overture. He had not touched Cersei since their wedding night due to a mix of intimidation and worry. While a girl like Lysa might smile and please him well enough, he could almost wager that Cersei was likely to slap him for attempting to touch her.

"I don't want to force you," he said.

"I don't want you to_ force_ me, I don't want…it's lonely. Sometimes."

Her voice rose, almost to the point of breaking, and then dipped. It was the closest to a moment of doubt he'd seen Cersei, her face pained and perplexed.

Southerners often said his people had ice in their veins, but Ned knew this not to be true. Nevertheless, he was a measured, careful man. Emotions simmered beneath his surface, but they did not explode as with Cersei. But just as there had been something wild in Lyanna and Brandon, there was a streak of the wolf in him.

He wrapped an arm around Cersei's waist and dipped her down into a kiss. Surprisingly, she wrapped her arms around his neck, quite eager to return the embrace. When he inched away, breathless, she shook her head.

"Don't," she said and began to tug at his clothes.

He froze for a few heartbeats, embarrassed and shocked, but then she pulled at the laces of her dress, her breasts spilling free, her mouth curving into a little smile. His hand trembled as he palmed her breast. He'd bedded her before but she had not wanted him then. Hers had been stoic indifference. She wanted him now.

She caught his lip and nipped at it. His pained expression made her giggle. Then he touched her and she did not laugh anymore.

#

"So this is the secret to keep your limbs from freezing," she said.

The floor was hard and cold beneath them, but Ned had draped his heavy furs around Cersei and she seemed quite comfortable, her golden hair spilling around her shoulders.

"It's a bear's pelt. You should wear furs, my lady. They will keep you warm."

"A dead animal strewn around one's shoulders?" Cersei said. "It would never do with my dresses."

He sighed. "New dresses can be made."

Cersei's jaw immediately tightened.

"You'll have me be someone else for your pleasure," she said, nearly snarling.

"What you wear does not change who you are."

"Well, I am not some simple little girl who will toss her silks into the snow to please you or a band of simpletons who have made their mind up about me. Let them call me the Bitch if it makes them happy," she said raising her haughty chin.

Ned looked at her pretty, angry green eyes. He touched her chin and smiled.

"I thought you smarter than that."

"I'm surprised the Starks were ever kings judging by your counsel," she shot back.

The torches were sputtering and they set to the business of dressing again.

#

Five days later there was a feast for Harold Tallhart, who'd come from Torrhen's Square to speak with Ned. Cersei was late to join them. When she walked in all heads turned towards her, everyone's gaze fixed on her.

Cersei normally clad herself in colorful silks and wore elaborate hairdos that would have been very fashionable at Robert's court. That evening she had eschewed her bright red and green gowns for a gray dress of a simple cut. She wore heavy, dark furs. Around her neck glittered a thick gold chain showing a lion with emeralds for eyes. Her hair was bound inside a net festooned with black pearls.

He was certain Cersei was the most beautiful woman in Westeros. Attired in this way, the effect was heady.

She sat down and gingerly folded her hands in her lap. He said nothing, drinking in her beauty.

"It is a wolf's pelt, my lord," she said, quirking a smile at him. "I thought it would be appropriate."

There was undeniable mischief in her voice, yet he smiled. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing her knuckles.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Cersei's second attempt to win Winterfell seemed to be going better than the first. Ned watched her pile books about the customs and history of the North, and sit late at night, reading by candlelight. She asked Maester Luwin many questions, and then she came to Ned and asked him some more. She dressed richly, but no longer did she sport dresses which bared her shoulders, nor was her hair piled up in the Southern way.

Cersei was conquering Winterfell. He also realized she was conquering him. She came to his bed often, now. As much as he might have liked to think he was being seduced out of love, he realized Cersei did not love him. Cersei must have him because she must have it all. Ned could have felt offended and yet he was not. There was something implacable about Cersei and he realized that if she wanted him, she'd have him.

An odd thing, to be courted by a woman. But that was Cersei. An odd woman.

A beautiful woman, too, and he knew he could seem like such a green boy in her presence.

"You have no idea how to kiss," she told him, teasingly, and then proceeded to show him exactly how to do it.

Ah, she was conquering Winterfell and she was conquering him.

#

It was a crisp autumn afternoon, light filtering through the narrow windows of the hall. Cersei walked in, bowed her head slightly, and sat down at his right, lovely in a pale blue dress. His lords stared, half a dozen eyes fixing on Ned's wife.

"We are talking business involving the South and I thought the Lady Stark might give good counsel," he said.

He'd been talking commerce with Cersei and though she'd made fun of him a couple of times (Northerners, she said, only had wool and icy glares to trade), she had asked a few sharp questions about White Harbour and the Kingsroad. He'd told Cersei she should join his men for their meeting. Her eyes had lit up at the thought.

"My lord, if you will forgive me she is not…she is not…a…m-a…ma…" stammered Vayon Poole."

"A man?" Cersei asked, smiling prettily. "My lords, I assure you I am not. But I believe a woman can offer good advice. Besides, there is probably much I can learn from you by listening to you converse."

"Having a lady at our table…It is just not done, my-my lady."

"Then it shall be the first time."

"Women were made to warm our beds and suckle babes. Perhaps if the lioness spent more time on her back than talking back at men, she might birth an heir," said Hother Umber angrily.

The men laughed, amused by the comment. Cersei straightened up, her body rigid as a knife, pressing her lips together.

"Are you so afraid of a woman that she may not sit in the same room as you?" Eddard asked, his voice cutting through the laughter like steel.

The men blinked, a couple of them flinching in their seats. Vayne Poole coughed and Hother Umber frowned.

"If Lady Stark terrifies you so, if a mere word from her mouth will send all you _brave_ men running, then by all means, I'll have her leave."

They were all quiet. At last, Hother spoke, his voice rumbling.

"Let her stay and let us not waste any more time on this."

"Aye," said Ned.

#

Cersei was quiet that night. She brushed her hair and looked into her mirror, the crackling of the fire punctuating the silence of their chamber.

"My brother would have sliced in half any man who spoke like that to me," Cersei said.

Ned looked at her. Cersei was still busy brushing her hair, her eyes fixed on her reflection.

"I very seldom like to slice men in half."

Cersei set her brush down. She turned towards him, her eyebrows knitted together.

"Did you really want me there or were you just trying to please me?"

"I wanted you there."

"Because if you think I will be grateful…if you think you've given me a gift, like a husband who gives a wife a strand of pearls or a puppy…if you think I will sit here and be grateful simply because you raised your voice and spoken in my favor, as was your duty, then you are mistaken. Because if you—"

"I wanted you there."

Cersei pressed her hand against her neck, her eyebrows furrowed even more. Her eyes were very green in the firelight, alight like embers.

"Nevertheless, you should have told that dog to choke on his words," she muttered.

"It would have been foolish."

"Yes, of course, Ned Stark is never foolish," she said, shrugging out of her green robe and slipping into bed.

Cersei stared at him with unblinking eyes, anger clearly sketched upon her face.

"If I were a man I would be very foolish and I wouldn't pause to rein myself in every half second," she said. "And if any man ever spoke a single word against my lady, his head would roll."

She tilted her chin up, with perfect authority.

"It is not so pleasing when heads really do roll," Ned said quietly.

He thought of the war and fallen men in the field of battle. He thought of the justice of the North, which he'd already been forced to administer. No, he had no hunger for blood. That might make him a fool in his wife's eyes, but he was not a fighter at heart.

"You are so measured. I hate you," Cersei said.

She extended a hand, brushing the hair away from his face. Her mood had changed all of a sudden and now she shifted to lay atop him, pressing a kiss to his neck.

"I love you," he said quietly, in return.

She braced her hands on his shoulders, looking down at him, but she did not reply.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The trees lost their leaves and stood like skeletons scratching the sky. As the land grew colder, Cersei's belly swelled with child. Winterfell accepted her presence more willingly now that she carried the Stark heir in her womb and embraced some of the Northerner's habits.

She looked at the lists of supplies, food, money and merchandise coming into Winterfell, she spoke to the steward and the messor, she made small-talk with the wives and daughters of minor lords. Sometimes, in the midst of reading a letter or looking through a book, she would pause and rest a hand against her stomach and she wondered if she'd be any good as a mother.

Cersei had known, as all noble girls knew, that her duty was to bear children to her lord husband. But she had considered this in an abstract way, never quite pondering what it might entail. Now she furrowed her eyebrows trying to recall her own mother, long dead.

Joanna had been a kind, loving woman but Cersei had never been much for kindness, or for such love.

Love, in general, was a difficult question mark. She had loved the idea of Rhaegar, of queenship, but recognized it as a young girl's infatuation now growing dimmer as time passed. She had loved Jaime, but then she had felt compelled to love him. They had been one and the same. Jaime's loss was like the loss of a limb.

She looked at Eddard Stark and recognized a gentle, loving man. Not as handsome as Rhaegar or Jaime, but neither ugly nor old. Quiet, sometimes to a fault, but then she filled his silences with her thoughts and he left her speak, content to listen. Respectful, honorable and measured.

_A cold fish_, Jaime might have said.

But she had seen his serious, long face light up at the sight of her entering a room; had felt his kisses on her neck.

Cold, sometimes, but he loved her.

Cersei did not love him back. She certainly did not mind his presence, nor did she mind sharing his bed.

And yet…

Sometimes Cersei wondered if Jaime had simply taken her heart to the grave with him. Ordinarily this lack of love might not have troubled her, except now she wondered about the child.

Would she love the child? Would she want to hold it in her arms? Would the baby love her back? How should a mother behave? What was expected of her?

Cersei tried to recall her mother's face, her voice, her feelings towards her.

#

She walked around the courtyard, clad in heavy furs, her breath rising in a puff.

Winter, so alien to her, a southern girl. Winter was approaching.

There, across the courtyard she spotted Lord Stark, dismounting his horse.

Cersei wondered what it might feel to _want_ to bid him hello, to _want_ to rush across the courtyard to kiss him. Like in the fairy tales. Like in the stories, half-forgotten, her mother had told her. Knights and ladies.

She felt no want and simply kept walking, the cold air brushing her golden hair.

#

Cersei could no longer sleep on her back and had to prop multiple pillows around her to achieve some semblance of rest. She felt ungraceful, bloated. As she sighed and tried to find a comfortable position, she glanced at Eddard.

"If I die you must not remarry the first little bannerman's daughter they toss your way. I'd wait for them to offer you a bride with some value and character," she said.

"You are not going to die for a very long time," he replied.

"My mother died in childbirth."

She thought of Tyrion, but then her thoughts turned quickly towards Eddard's bastard. She knew Ashara Dayne was dead but it had never struck her to consider what that meant for a child. The loss of the mother. Growing up alone.

"My father did not remarry, but I'd expect you to do it," Cersei said. "It would probably be best for the child."

"Nothing bad is going to happen to you," Ned said.

He rested a reassuring palm against the swell of her belly.

"You can't promise that," Cersei said. "You don't know."

She shook her head. She did not like such dismissive comforts. The birthing bed was a coffin for many women. She would not have him spin a child's fairy tale to her.

"If I die, marry wisely," she said.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead. Cersei rested her head against his chest and though she thought it was silly to feel safe thanks to a simple gesture, yet she was.

#

The first snows of winter greeted Cersei's firstborn. It was a girl, her hair as dark as the father's. In the first days following her birth her eyes were gray but Maester Luwin told her children often have gray eyes at birth and indeed, the eyes turned a luminous green.

There was something of the lion in her daughter, after all.

Cersei sent her father a raven announcing the birth of his granddaughter only to receive a dry missive advising her on the need of a _real _heir. A boy. She crumpled the letter and tossed it in the fire.

#

"What shall we call her?" Eddard asked.

Unlike Cersei's father, he seemed pleased by the child, even if it was a girl.

Cersei had been thinking of an illustrious Lannister name and picked half a dozen which would suit the child. After all, Cersei was still a lioness from the Rock and wanted to assert this point.

She sat in bed and watched her husband, so long and lean, holding the babe in his arms. The snow was piling outside, winter biting the land. She looked up at him, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Lyanna."

Eddard looked at her very carefully, as though he quite did not believe her words. Cersei did not quite believe them either. She shook her head, her voice growing firmer.

"Have it be Lyanna," she said.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

He loved her and he was smart enough to realize she did not love him. There was always something in Cersei that held back from him, some hidden place he could never reach. A secret sadness that kept her lips from unfurling into a lovely, open smile.

Only with the children was she able to open up completely. Only they had her absolute affection. Lyanna had his hair but Cersei's eyes, and overall seemed more Lannister than Stark. Tybald, on the other hand, greatly resembled Ned in both looks and temper. He was a gentle, quiet babe.

Their presence delighted Cersei. She combed Lyanna's hair, carried Tybald in her arms, sang them songs she'd learnt as a girl.

She still complained of Winterfell. Of the cold and the people and the land. But her complaints had diminished. When she walked by in her furs there was a sureness about her stride that had not been there before. The knowledge that she'd carved herself a place behind these frozen walls.

And yet...there was always that nagging feeling, deep in Ned's heart, that it was all not enough.

Sometimes she had nightmares and she woke in a sweaty fright. He'd hold her and mutter soothing words.

One night she woke in terror and he held her as he always did, pressing her head against his chest.

"What is it?" he asked. "What did you dream?"

She said nothing.

He did not ask again, preferring to wait. It seemed to him he was always quietly waiting for Cersei, immobile while she spun around him. But he knew no other way to be.

"Queen you shall be... Five children you shall have. All in shrouds," she muttered.

There was a pause. It lasted for many heartbeats. Ned thought she would not speak, but then her voice rose, softly, slowly.

"I never told you the story," she said. "When I was a child...we went to see a witch. We wanted her to foretell our future. She told Melara she'd die young and she told me I'd be crowned queen and my children would die...they'd all be in shrouds."

Her voice was very faint. He had to strain to hear her, bending down his head. All of a sudden Cersei looked up at him.

"Melara did die young. A fall from a horse just a few months later."

"The woman was guessing," Ned said. "A lucky guess."

"The witch also said my brother would perish...and it came true. It came true, didn't it? Was she just guessing again?"

Cersei's voice had risen and she shoved him away, climbing out of bed and stopping by the window. The fire in their room was burning low. The flickering flames made her hair seem like gold. She was so pale in her white shift, a hand against the wooden shutters. Pale and beautiful and scared. It was an odd thing, to see her like this. Like gazing at a knight without his armor.

"You were not crowned queen."

"Yes, I know!"

Her voice bounced against the stone walls, like a scared bird. She had two fingers against the hollow of her throat and her eyes were on the floor. He rose from bed, slowly approaching her.

"But I am still afraid."

The fire crackled and Cersei whirled towards him.

"He'll make you fight his war, won't he?"

There had been a raven that morning from King's Landing. The message had been meant only for Ned's eyes, but he was not surprised to discover his wife had intercepted it. There was very little that escaped Cersei.

"You spy on me."

"You wouldn't have told me. You would have called your men and quietly told _them_ you must raise your banners, but you would have tried to keep it from me for as long as you could. Do not try to deny it."

"You justify yourself by making stories up."

"Stories? Tell me it is not true. Tell me you will not fight his war."

"Robert is my king. I pledged—"

"Yes, I know. Men always pledge and then they march away while the women wait back home, hoping and dreading and praying."

"If I am needed—"

"And if you die?" she asked.

"I will not die."

"Jaime died," Cersei said.

He raised a hand, attempting to place it on her shoulder, but she slapped it away and gnashed her teeth. She rushed to the other side of the room, striking the wall with the palms of her hands.

"Cersei, please," he muttered, following her.

"Everyone dies. Mother, Jaime, Melara. _Everyone_. If you die father will marry me off in a heartbeat to the gods-know-who. Women are chattel, to be bought and sold. I refuse to have to play that game again."

Ned took hold of her hands. She stared at him, not with sorrow or fear but with righteous anger.

"I may be nothing but an uncouth Northerner, as you've told me so very many times, but I can swing a sword and hold a shield."

"I have not said you are uncouth Northerner," Cersei said, trying to wiggle out of his grip. "I said the North is uncouth. I am right, too. Will you let go?"

He obeyed her command, gently releasing her hands.

"You need not ever remarry," Ned said, his voice grave and serious. "Do not concern yourself over that point."

"I know. Women need never concern themselves about anything, poor things."

"I did not mean it that way."

She rubbed her wrists, raising her proud chin and giving him a dignified look. He knew Cersei was about to reply with some barbed comment as she tended to do, but then her face softened.

Cersei raised a hand, settling it on the back of his neck, pulling him down to meet her halfway. Her lips brushed against his in a chaste kiss.

There's something under the surface of that kiss. Just like there's _always_ something under the surface; something hidden and half seen, glimpsed only in the early hours of the dawn, in stolen glances that could hardly be noticed.

There's something but Ned can't quite tell what it is.

_Note: I know in the books Melara falls in a well, but I've changed it here._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The morning Ned and his men left Winterfell, people gathered all around the courtyard to bid them farewell. Many women snivelled and whimpered. Cersei stood tall and straight in her wolf furs, knowing well that all eyes were set on her. That she was, for now, lord and lady of Winterfell. She could not show weakness, nor did she want to.

Ned hugged his children, then paused before Cersei, planting a cool kiss on her cheek. Cersei bowed her head and bid him goodbye.

Ned mounted his horse and rode away in the company of his men. Cersei watched him with rising panic, thinking of all the people she had lost, of the ravages of war. Songs always make battles seem so gallant and exciting, but a corpse is not gallant.

She had to crush her nails against the palms of her hands to keep herself from running after him and begging him to take her with him. If he could go to war, why could she not? Why must she wait and worry and despair?

That would be dramatic and foolish and weak, she told herself. She was nothing of the sort.

Ned turned to look at her, just once, before he was out of sight. He was far by then, just a grey, lean figure on a horse, but she felt his eyes settling upon hers for a couple of heartbeats.

And then he was gone.

_#_

_Mother, will father come home soon?_

Jon asked the question one evening. The three children were always together, Tybald toddling and stumbling behind Jon, Lyanna confidently following the boy. Cersei might allow the children to play together, but she would not allow such careless words to spill from a bastard's mouth. Mother. Not at all.

She set Jon to memorizing her family lineage, five generations back, and though it took him some effort to repeat and retain the names she spoke, Cersei would not let him go to bed until he was done.

The boy was teary-eyed by the time she waved his hand at him, motioning to the door. Cersei looked down at the child and spoke with a commanding voice.

"This is for your own good, boy. Always know who you are," she said.

The boy nodded and quietly departed.

Cersei frowned, wondering if she should not have gotten rid of the boy many years ago. But where would she have sent him off? A Northern lord would be delighted to foster a Stark child, but sending a bastard would be an offensive gesture. Similarly, she could not imagine what her father might say if she were to ship Jon to Casterly Rock. Still, she supposed it could be done.

_Father would simply toss him out. So what? The child can beg if he wants to be fed._

But no. She would not do this for it would pain Ned. She did not want to make him unhappy.

Cersei's frown deepened. She had never placed much stock in the happiness of others. She cared for her happiness, giving little thought for the joys and sorrows of others. It was an odd thing to find herself caring.

_Know who you are_, she'd told Ned's bastard, and yet she was not sure she had the faintest idea who she was supposed to be.

#

Cersei grew big with child. Not one, but two. The women, when they looked at her belly, whispered she'd give birth to sons. Boys or girls, the twins sapped her energy. Cersei felt more ungainly than she'd ever felt during her previous pregnancies. She was like a great ship that has run aground.

Though often exhausted, she had much to do. Letters needed to be written, supplies must be accounted for, the household managed. She might be as a full moon that traverses the sky, but the matter of pregnancy and childbirth would not keep Cersei from exercising her authority.

She thought often of Ned as the weeks went by, though she sent him few letters. He had better things to think of than the names she was considering for the children or the pains and aches she felt. She did not put her loneliness to paper, nor the nagging fears that might assault her at nights.

One night, she dreamt that her mother had come to visit her. She was leaning over Cersei, looking at her with a worried look. Jaime was with her, standing at her elbow.

Cersei opened her eyes. She felt a wetness between her thighs and then a sharp pain at her core. She lifted the covers and looked down to see the bed drenched in blood.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

There is a blur of activity. Servants and maids coming into her room. The worried whispers, the shuffling of feet. Some women carry clean linens, other bandages. Two girls lift a big basin full of water.

Cersei is disconcerted. Wounded and in pain. So much pain. More pain than is bearable. Cersei drinks some foul tasting medicine that they shove down her throat.

"The babies come too soon," someone says. "Stay awake."

_I'm bleeding_, she wants to yell. _I'm dying_. But she drifts back into a dream, a hallucination...something.

#

In this dream she was back in the fortune teller's tent, like in her childhood. The hag's tent looked larger than she remembered, each dark corner ripe with danger. Every object in sight filled her with dread, from the herbs hanging from the tent to the iron brazier shaped like a basilisk's head. Even the smells made her pause, each pungent scent making her feel sicker and sicker.

The old woman grinned at her and gestured towards the floor. Cersei made out five lumps wrapped in black, five corpses.

"Queen you shall be... Five children you shall have. All in shrouds," the woman said.

And she saw the faces of the corpses. Her daughter. Her son. The twins in her womb. Even Jon Snow.

_My children_, she thought.

"I don't want them to die!" she yelled. "I don't want to die!"

"Why not? You killed me," whispered a small voice behind her.

It was Melara in a tattered dress, staring angrily at her. Melara, looking like some thing that was half smoke and half flesh, a ghost of a dead girl.

"I didn't," Cersei whispered, taking a step back.

"We were riding together and you said I ought to jump that old fence, remember? You egged me on."

"It was a game."

Was it a game? Gods, she'd been angry at Melara. The girl had taken her to the fortune teller and then she wouldn't stop talking about it. Her superstitious babble, week in and week out, chaffed Cersei.

_She said we wouldn't speak about it, but she did_, Cersei thought.

And then one day they were riding together and Melara was being annoying again and Cersei told her to jump the fence. A dare. Nothing more.

_I thought she'd take a tumble and get some mud on her dress_, she thought_. She deserved it. For the witch, for the fear she subjected me to. I didn't think she'd die._

"But I did die," Melara said. "And anything you love will die, too."

"It's not true," Cersei said.

"There is only death in your future," the witch said and she chuckled, her eyes shinning yellow like a wild animal's.

Melara laughed too. Cersei rushed out of the tent, the cackle of the witch and the girl following her. She was running across the tourney grounds, but the land around her had shifted and she was now running through the streets of King's Landing. She looked up and saw rows of heads upon spikes. She recognized one of them.

_That is Ned_, she thought. _That is Ned's head_.

She sobbed and pushed her way through heavy oak doors and she was...she didn't know where she was. A never ending plain of ice and snow, cold wind whipping her hair into her face and she saw piles of corpses upon the ground, their blood painting the snow crimson. There was a great army approaching her, but the eyes of the soldiers were blue and their faces, once she was able to glimpse them, made her gag and run in the other direction.

Now she was running down narrow steps, into the crypts of Winterfell. She looked at the likeness of the dead, holding iron swords, and their faces twisted, grimacing at her.

She tripped, falling into a puddle of blood. She tried to get up, tried to find purchase, and managed to lift herself only to find herself staring into the stone likeness of Lyanna Stark. The statue was crying tears of blood.

Suddenly there was a fire, a great roaring wave of fire and she ran as fast she could, feeling the once cold stones boil beneath her feet until she stumbled into the room of her girlhood in Casterely Rock. Her mother was there, sitting by the fireplace. Jaime was also there, at their mother's side.

She rushed to her mother, kneeling by her.

"Oh, mother. Maybe I should die. Maybe I should, if this the future in store for me," Cersei said.

She felt Joanna's gentle fingers running through her hair.

"Look at the fire," Joanna said, her voice low.

Cersei lifted her head, trying to blink back tears, and glanced at the flames. She saw nothing in particular.

"The flames twist and curl. They are always changing. Your future is always changing," Joanna said. "There are a thousand different futures in the fire."

"You must be strong," Jaime said.

"I don't want to be strong," Cersei said. "I don't."

"Winter is coming," Jaime said. "You must be strong if you hope to survive it."

"I don't know what you mean," Cersei said.

She heard a gurgle, a faint sound and realized Joanna was cradling a child in her arms. Cersei looked down at the infant, but recoiled in horror when she discovered it was a pile of festering flesh crawling with maggots.

"Is this the future you want for the child?" her mother asked.

"What else is there?!" she yelled.

She turned towards Joanna, but her mother and her brother had vanished. She was standing next to a carved, wooden crib. When she looked in it she saw a healthy baby.

_This. This what there is_, she thought.

She picked the baby up, holding it close to her breast.

#

She drifted up through the pain and broke the surface, slipping back into consciousness.

Maester Luwin stared at her, worry taut across his face. She clutched his hand.

"I can do this," she said.

And there was pain, much more pain than there had ever been, but also the steel edge of determination.


End file.
